


The Melancholy Gate

by depresane



Series: Vissenvaib the Gorion's Blunderer [9]
Category: Baldur's Gate, 涼宮ハルヒ | Suzumiya Haruhi - All Media Types
Genre: (elements of post-modern narrative), (elements of slice of life), (there's no actual suicide in the plot), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Attempt at Humor, Autism, Autism Spectrum, Character(s) of Color, Crossover, F/F, Gen, High School, Mentioned suicide, Meta, Modern Faerun, Post-Modern, School Clubs, Slice of Life, Teenagers, autistic secondary character, mentioned non-con (there's no non-con in the plot per se), neurotypical protagonist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2019-12-29 19:08:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18300212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/depresane/pseuds/depresane
Summary: A teenage girl who only partially understands unspoken social rules opens her own school club. That teenage girl? Gorion's Ward.





	1. ...

I have been struggling, thinking intensely like during an exam. How can I start this story when its beginning is one of the most boring and most predictable beginnings? And I can’t. You’ll roll your eyes. Yet another First Week at High School kind of stories. Why should you care about it?  
Therefore, I will take a day from the middle of the story and turn it into Chapter One. I promise you won’t be confused. Everything will be explained.

###  [Chapter 1](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18300212/chapters/43313468): Us

Our town has several exits; three of them lead to tiny, not dense forests. The majority of plants is broadleaf trees. Imagine such a forest and a sand road across it.  
One morning, a group of five teenagers went to the forest.  
What do teenagers in general do in the woods on the ninth day? They get drunk and leave litter.  
What were _we_ doing?  
Oh dear.  
Let me describe the first teen, Ajantis. His broad jaw makes him look mature. So do his manners. And there he was, wearing a cardboard armour with silver wrappings taken from chocolate bars and glued all over. Constantly fixing his cubic helmet. It always fell and hit his neck. It stopped being funny after four times, so we did a quick fix and added a shoelace to the helmet.  
Well, it wasn’t really “we” because I refused to get fully invested in… the project. I was holding my tripod all this time.  
I can’t prolong this any further.  
My friends were making an amateur movie.  
It was her idea. V wrote a script, bought a handheld digital camera, convinced us to participate, assembled the pathetic armour costume, and lent Ajantis her huge necklace with Ilmater tied to a pole. His character was a paladin. A fitting role, I guess. But why couldn’t he wear a cardboard necklace with a fictional deity? I mean, that necklace was legit. V had received it during a ceremony of some sort. A lot of people would be upset or offended.  
Not her, though. She was upset when the mighty paladin’s wooden toy sword broke. She couldn’t fix it immediately, we had no tape. She cried because there would be a delay, when she had planned an entire schedule for the recording session.  
Unfortunately, our other friend, Imoen, offered a substitute. She rode her bicycle all the way back to her house and returned with a cheap light sword. It shone blue. It also didn’t work half of the time. Still, Imoen inspired V, suggesting that the blue light could indicate a divine aid. She stopped crying and they all resumed… the production.  
V is special, alright. Energetic, impatient, passionate. In fact, I think she’s autistic. That would explain her personality, manners, values, even clothes. On that specific ninth day, she wore a loose T-shirt with a word “magic” on it, baggy jeans, and yellow flats. She brought her script in a bag. No folders, no covers, just fifteen pages shoved into the bag, next to her umbrella and a bottle of ice tea. Every single thing I enumerated was her favourite and thus important.  
I can recall all her shirts with ease; meanwhile, I have no idea what _I_ was wearing that day in the woods. Probably because I choose generic clothes. I switch between all red and all green.  
But back to the movie. Imoen played an evil thief. Mostly because casting our last friend as one would be insensitive at least. You could tell Imoen was evil because she wore black leather. And because she was a thief. To be fair, the character did steal from the poor, not the rich.  
And then, there was Hadi’a. Unlike Ajantis and Imoen, they chose their own outfit. V had told them, “You’ll be a mage; dress up in whatever.” Oh dear, did they deliver. Their vivid, colourful, embroidered, traditional outfit felt out of place when juxtaposed with the pitiful cardboard gear. But at the same time, it fit with the setting. Well, any traditional garment fits in a story loosely based on the thirteenth century.  
Hadi’a was able to hide their poor acting skills. How? They actually found the project fun. Waving their hands theatrically, taking advantage of their robe’s loose sleeves, chanting in their native language… As opposed to Ajantis with his Serious Business expression and monotonous diction; as opposed to Imoen, who treated the whole thing like a school play. Again, our friend matched the story but not the budget.  
Ah yes, the story. Ajantis and Hadi’a were looking for Imoen; they had to cross a mysterious forest and fight its inhabitants. Hadi’a divined the directions, summoned familiars, cast all sorts of spells, did a fake martial art (as far as we know), hunted animals, examined the surroundings… and they were a _supporting_ character. Meanwhile, Ajax the protagonist was just swinging that silly light toy and reciting pompous pish-posh that existed there to remind everyone (including him) that he was a paladin. At the climax of the… plot, Ajantis accidentally killed Imoen, when he only intended to arrest her. That event lead to the dramatic ending where he wondered whether he could continue his duty.  
V wanted the protagonist to commit suicide but I intervened. Yes, I had actually convinced her to scrap that part out of cringe. The cardboard armour, the amulet, the plush toys she brought along “for reference when she would be adding 3D effects to the footage” – whatever. Time will come when V and her pals become embarrassed, and that’s natural. But before that happens, they’re all entertained. The suicide ending, though – that’s too far. Good thing that she listened to me; it was much easier for me to manage standing with them for four hours.  
Now, who am I, besides from an editor and the tripod lessor, who wears forgettable outfits?  
Call me Kor.  
Back to the movie.  
V would snap her fingers next to the camera to mark takes and cuts. She used my tripod for calm scenes, where the heroes were strolling, exploring, or discussing something; also, whenever she recorded her teddy bear in a pink hoodie, sitting on the grass. She’s not a skilled computer animator, so she didn’t want to overcomplicate the job that awaited her in post-production. But when she was filming Ajantis and Hadi’a during the fight scenes, she held the camera with both of her hands, running behind… the actors, turning, tilting, zooming in and out (by walking; the proper zoom option was loud enough for the microphone to catch it), even acting as the beasts the characters fought. As in, she kneeled and thrust the device in front of her friends.

She hit Ajantis in the nose. It took her a second to realize that. She stopped recording, dove into her bag and gave him a tissue, apologizing repeatedly. Ajax was upset at first, it clearly hurt him a bit; but then he laughed it off, despite his nosebleed.  
“You know what, keep that take if it turns out good. Just don’t hit me again.”  
V nodded, her cheeks and ears blushing, her eyes fixed on the ground. “I’ll try. I think I got too excited, imagining how that fight should look.”  
“I figured.” He checked his nose with his fingertips and stood up.  
He had a tiny stain left under a nostril; it stayed there for the rest of the fight until the next scene, quickly added by the crew, where Hadi’a cleaned Ajantis’ face. Of course they helped him; not because _sexism and stuff_ but because, as mentioned earlier, they did everything in that plot.

We took a break under a lonely tree. We were eating sandwiches and salads, gazing at a lake in the distance.  
And I was stricken with the ingenious thought.  
“Hey, V. Don’t you think that Hadi’a should be the protagonist?”  
She tensed her face in a silly, almost caricaturistic expression. “Maybe? But it’s a bit too late for that. I wrote the whole thing for Ajax. His conflict, dilemma, like… uh, yh, em, I would have to change the script _right now_. And that’s risky. I’ll get inconsistencies. Maybe… maybe Hadie could become a protagonist of a sequel.”  
What have I done.  
“What do you say, Hadie? Would you want to act in the sequel?”  
They smiled with a piece of lettuce stuck on their lip. “Yup.”  
“Then, that’s settled.”  
I chugged a whole bottle of milk shake to wash down the embarrassment.

In the end, V tweaked the last dialogue, after Imoen’s death, to indicate that the journey inspired Hadi’a. Thus, the paladin was torn and the mage wanted seconds.  
We finished in the late afternoon. I went home, ate cold dinner and hid in my bed. I dreamt that my legs fell off my torso and a viper bit my behind. ...I’ve had worse dreams.  
I met V the next day. She was bouncing, swaying, shaking her hands by twisting her wrists, humming and giggling. Explaining to me for minutes how she edited the footage. No, I don’t remember it; not a single sentence. My mind turned off.  
I was listening to her content voice. To her unique diction. To her tone radiating with fascination.  
She had fun, and that’s all that mattered.


	2. Non-mystery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teenagers will be teenagers... But V has none of it.

Now. About my first meeting with V.  
I should begin by describing our high school. It’s shaped like Elven letter L; its centre body and the long wing existed since the nineteenth century, while the short wing was built over thirty years ago. There’s a basement, the ground floor, the first floor, a gym room, a boarding house… and the second floor exclusive to the short wing. Good job, the architect who came up with this. Every time we had exchange students, they stared at the second floor with wry mouths. The thing looks like a tower, kinda.  
Teachers are sent to one fixed classroom, and pupils move from one room to another every hour. The rooms are usually left open and going outside between lessons is optional. Why? Who knows. But it felt better that way. We could sit and revise material for exams, eat without flies or wasps flying around, or rest after physical education. But more importantly, we could doodle on the blackboard.  
Those were the best days. Single desks, doing homework right before we were meant to send it, browsing memes on our telegraphics, and drawing eyes.  
Yes. Eyes. I’ll explain later.  
Initially, I didn’t even notice V. Looking back at our high school years, I can tell why: she focused on the teachers, asked them questions about the curriculum, homework, exams or absences, and took notes for future reference. She doesn’t stand out during her Focused Mode, at least not when one sits behind her.  
But then.  
On the sixth day, after the new-break, a sunset of six braids shone upon me. Asymmetric, messy, distracting braids with ribbons in vivid colours. Additionally, she moved on from her Focused Mode to Half-Focused Mode, where she allows herself to daydream and stim.  
Look. Back then, I wouldn’t be able to recognize an autistic unless they were completely mute. I didn’t know about stimming, okay? Rocking back and forth? I thought that was a result of trauma. Waving one’s foot? A lot of people do that. Touching one’s hair? Uh… No connotation.  
And then, there she was, constantly checking her hair – the shape of braids and general texture of hair, as she explained to me months later. And she is _never_ done: she touches one braid, another one, comes back to the first one, traces the lines on her scalp… You may ask, “What about loose hair?” No difference. She examines her locks.  
Needless to say, I was stunned. The lesson was gone; the classmates disappeared. I looked away  but she was still there, in the blurry crescent-shaped part of my field of view. And when she seemingly stopped playing with her braids… Her fingers were stroking the cover of her schoolbook.  
It turns out, she needs to keep her hands busy. It’s not a matter of life and death, but rather… a matter of comfort.  
But again, I didn’t know jack crap back then.  
  
I advise that you get used to my swinging back and forth in the narrative. I could be presenting her habits as mysterious; I could be restraining myself from revealing my current knowledge until final chapters… but it doesn’t seem fair to do so. V isn’t a grand mystery of any sort; she’s not an alien artefact with an unbreakable code. She takes the chaos of her surroundings and arranges it to give it sense. She plays with languages, keeping them fresh and flexible. She combines her naivete and experience into an unstoppable train of determination. But above all this, she is a half-elf.  
  
Back to my uneducated self.  
I waited for the next day to see whether V’s appearance and behaviour would change. Guess what happened.  
Just… just guess.  
  
  
_3_  
  
_2_  
  
_1_  
  
  
She had _seven_ braids.  
  
I came to the conclusion that I should talk to her. I waited for the first lesson to end; then, I waited near the door. She packed her items slowly and left the classroom second-to-last.  
“Hello,” I started.  
She took a short glance at me. “Hey.” She looks at people’s faces only from time to time. There are exceptions, but we’ll get to that much later.  
“Am I disturbing you?”  
“No. What’s the matter?”  
“Your hairstyle. Is there some sort of meaning behind it?”  
“Not really? I’m just testing myself.”  
“That… tells me nothing.”  
“You see, my mum wants me to change stuff daily. To wear various clothes. To fold my hair differently. Don’t worry, this is temporary. Not… not her preaching; the braids. I’m just curious how long I’ll manage to keep the habit.”  
“Mhm… ‘Various clothes’? Like what?”  
“I just pick up one pair of trousers for a tenday and match my shirts. It’s quick and convenient. None of that stereotypical dilemma my mum sustains.”  
I nodded.  
She slightly tilted her head, examining my face. “I don’t recognize you. Do you? Like, have you seen me at middle school?”  
“Nah, I live elsewhere. We have our own middle school but not high school.”  
“Oh.”  
“It’s just… that you’re sitting in front of me.”  
One beat later, she added two and two. “OH. Am I distracting you?”  
“…yes.”  
She chuckled nervously. “Oh my goodness, sorry. I’ll stop touching my hair. I mean… I’ll try.”  
  
That was easy. :)  
  
“So, uh… Since you don’t know me… My name is Vĭedźdaž.”  
I’m cheating because I know how to spell it now, but back then… my brain froze. My eyes grew. My smile stretched to an uncanny length.  
She saw my reaction. “It means, ‘may gods grant her wisdom.’ Like, ‘vyeh-’ Yh.” She realized she should have started with a different piece of information. “Right, I’m Rashemi.”  
“Aaah! That’s why.”  
“Yeah, sorry, hee-hee… Call me V. What is your name?”  
“Kor.”  
“That’s… quite descriptive.”  
Because I’m a half-drow.  
“To be fair, it isn’t my full name. I just… I always shorten it to Kor.”  
“Okay.”  
  
We chatted one more time that day, during the lunch break. School clubs were looking for participants and V couldn’t decide where to sign up.  
Yup, it was a thing; one of the standard elements of our generation’s education. Mandatory for the final grade, it served as a time for revision and practice before exams. It was suggested that fresh-folk should participate as well, to get used to the clubs in advance. Very few did. We wanted to rest after school. To explore our interests. To go out with our datemates. To sleep. Literally and euphemistically.  
That’s why the clubs for the fresh-folk focused on those activities that brought fun and satisfaction: sports, instruments, languages, motion stories, sewing, cooking, games and such. No homework, no tests. Obviously, the topics were supervised by teachers, so we couldn’t really organise a club about… browsing the e-web. Or sex. Or taking naps. As for movies and games, well… Several pupils played it nice and chose the media from a specific foreign country, with mild violence, a bit old, and somewhat educational; one would analyse cultural differences, another one would focus on the plot structure, plot devices, narrative, frames and shots. Then, there were the pupils who played dirty: they chose the media the teachers were unfamiliar with, lied when describing the material, and got away with showing their classmates gore, low tier comedy, porn (with muted audio), and the worst of them all, pro-Regent Thayan propaganda. (How do they even find that crap?) I mean, they got away because nobody snitched. It’s not like the adults have time and energy to check every single club, every single day; they have tests to design.  
  
…  
I should have seen it coming. Right when the new tenday began, V tried to sabotage one of our classmates. His crime? He drew a huge, circumcised penis with hairy testicles. As boys do. However, when the time to clear the board came, he couldn’t find the sponge.  
Because V took it.  
“Gimme tha’!” he yelled.  
“No! I’m telling the teacher!”  
“Gimme the sponge!”  
Meanwhile, his colleague tried removing the chalk with his hand. He smeared what he could and added three dots.  
Our teacher entered the classroom and saw the drawing. “Excuse me, who’s on duty this tenday? Erase those eyes, please.”  
The boys mouthed a “yes!” and returned to their seats.  
V kept standing. “They’re not ey–”  
I whispered to her, “Let it go.”  
She did but not without growling.  
  
That’s the story of the eyes, our inner joke.  
  
Now, snitching on mildly upsetting phallic images is an overreaction.  
Snitching on school clubs is serious.  
In the middle of the month, all classes had to listen to the Chief’s announcement. From that day on, the clubs would be supervised by cleaners, who would report any deviations to the Chief’s assistants.  
I had to rely on rumours to understand the situation. A boy from the second grade had advertised an educational analysis of The Shining Plains and its culture… only to be showing non-consensual porn comics. No analysis, no critique; the whole club, established a year ago, was just an excuse. And yet, nobody cared.  
Except for the snitch.  
The club members knew straight away it was V. She left early, disgusted by the scam and the content.  
I talked to her. “Maybe… you should be snitching only in extreme circumstances.”  
That look she gave me. “He lied about his own club and misused the teachers’ trust.”  
“It’s just a club. A compromise between appeasing teachers and students. You’re being way too stiff.”  
She rolled her eyes and walked away, stomping.  
  
Next week, an unthinkable happened: bus schedule changed. I had to wait one more hour for the departure.  
I thought, “I might as well join a club.”  
Every announcement board was covered with posters about clubs. All on colourful sheets of paper. It hurt to look at them, so I was paying attention only to posters on white sheets. Still, even those tried too hard to look “cool and trendy,” with their wacky fonts and free-use images from the e-web.  
And then.  
One poster had a thin flowery frame and a standard font, default for old text editors.  
“Vĭedźdaž Cecy would like to invite you to RASHEMI APPRECIATION CLUB. You will be introduced to the Rashemi culture, history, language, literature, music, and modern media.  
Every seventh day at 15:00, classroom no 209.”  
Oh.  
Oh no.  
She closed one club with her snitching, only to establish her own. I can only imagine how other pupils felt. In fact, I did imagine: the Serious Business half-elf with seven messy braids, bragging about the Rashemi phonetics while squeezing said braids. She would have lost her participants and gained bullies.  
…  
Out of curiosity, I decided to watch her first meeting.


End file.
